


Trinity: Saints & Angels

by theroguesgambit



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Action, Angst, Crossover, Drama, F/M, Family, Gen, Profanity, Violence, walking saints
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They had been chosen to bring order into a world of chaos. They hadn't realized just how demanding their calling would become."<br/>Post s.2. The survivors of Hershel's farm are just trying to make it through the long winter, when they encounter a half-delusional stranger who inexplicably latches on to Daryl like lost kin.<br/>Connor has been on his his own for longer than he can remember. When he runs into a southern hunter who looks more like Murphy's twin than he does, all he knows is that he has to stay with this group at all costs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**A/N:** As posted on fanfiction.net, but with some minor edits and improvements.

Variations on this have been done before, but this story's a bit unique in that it's going to put a lot of focus on the hows and whys of Daryl's connection to the MacManus brothers. It might not just be a random coincidence this time through… Also, this story takes place pre-season 3, but characters and plot points from that season will eventually be included.  
 **Summary:** Following the events of the season two finale, the survivors of Hershel's farm have spent months on the run, just trying to make it through the long winter. When they encounter a half-delusional stranger with skills to spare, the group must decide whether it's worth the risk to keep him around. But what is the stranger's connection to Daryl, and how does this all relate to the brother the man believes himself to have lost?  
 **Pairings:** More or less canon (for the time being).  
 **Warnings:** Violence and profanity in keeping with the source material.

**Trinity**

_The three shall spread their blackened wings and be the vengeful striking hammer of God._

– The Boondock Saints

**Prologue**

            They had been chosen to bring order into a world of chaos.  They hadn’t realized just how demanding their calling would become.

            Murphy let out a whoop of triumph as another demon fell, the handle of his bowie knife protruding from its skull.  He flashed his brother a grin, which went totally unheeded, before stepping forward, bracing his foot against the creature’s back and dragging the weapon out.

            It was raining across the slick tile floor, blood tinging the puddles a pale pink.

             “That’s eight,” he shouted over the sound of the spray.  “How many a those fuckers we see outside?”

             Connor, head bent and whispering into his cross, didn’t respond right away.  While he waited, Murphy took the opportunity to impale a shambling demon that had finally noticed the commotion and made its way over from the Bed and Bath section to try for a bite.  Finally Connor rose from his knees, kissing the wooden cross and peering around the room at the fallen.

            “Was seven, wasn’t it?”

            “If it was seven then why’d I get nine, genius?” 

           Connor shrugged faintly, tucking the cross back under his shirt.

            “ _We_ ,” he corrected, “got nine.  And I took the first five so, unless my math’s off, that’d mean I got one more than you, doesn’t it, baby brother?”

            Murphy shot Connor a look that suggested he would’ve cuffed him if they’d been in arm’s reach of each other.

            “Shut it.  That’s only since you made me track down the fucking sprinkler system.”  He leaned down, wiping his knife clean on the last demon’s jeans absently, before rising.  “You really think it’s going to count, anyway?  Blessing sprinkler water?”

            Again, Connor shrugged, eyes flicking across the bodies.

            “Best we got these days, isn’t it?  Not these people’s fault that demons made them rise up after death.  Least we can do is try and purify them, send them on in peace.”  _Fuck_ , Murphy hadn’t been off on his count.  They’d gotten a good enough look at the horde on the street before deciding to draw the fight inside, and there’d definitely only been seven.  Which meant either another group of the things had come shambling up Main Street awfully quick, or this store hadn’t been as empty as they’d hoped.  It was a dark building and they’d stayed toward the front so far.  Who knew how many more were hiding out in a back room or up a random aisle in the darkness?

            Murphy, meanwhile, had made his way over to the register halfway up the aisle, and had started searching around for a key in the counter.

            “Well, now that we’re in a store we can restock a bit, aye?  Though I’ve got to say, still feel strange about taking the coins.  Theft from a public place… edge of the line a bit, isn’t it?”

            “Shopkeepers all long gone or dead.”  Connor had drawn out his gun, eyes flitting toward the darkened back of the store.  It seemed to stretch back forever all of a sudden, shadows swallowing the space like a physical presence.  It was a huge outlet; who knew how far back it stretched?  It’d been a mistake to come in here.

            “Murph, leave it this time alright?  Let’s just get out of here.”

            “What, you late for an appointment or something?  Hold on, I got the key.”

            “Murph…”

            “Look, you’re right.  Their souls still deserve peace, and it’s hardly stealing if money’s not a matter to this world anymore.”  The sharp jangle of the register opening made Connor wince.

            “The blessed water’ll do with these.  Let’s go.”

            Finally, Murphy seemed to pick up on his tension, looking up with a frown.

            “Fuck’s wrong with you, Conn?  We’re not just to-”

            And then he froze, eyes going huge, and Connor knew he’d guessed wrong.  The darkness ahead hadn’t been the thing to fear.

            “Conn, _move!_ ”  He dove forward without thinking, even as Murphy drew his gun and started firing off rapid shots toward the entrance behind him.  Murphy wasn’t a poor shot, and Connor knew even before looking that they were dealing with more than a lone demon.

            He managed to hit the ground in something resembling a roll, and twisted back to his feet already firing.  At some point, maybe hearing the sprinklers or the pair’s own shouts, what looked like at least a dozen demons had found their way to the shop’s entrance.

            “Christ,” Murphy wasn’t smirking now, voice tight with concentration as Connor continued to back up to get in line with him.  “Like a fucking tour bus unloaded here.  Where’d they come from, anyway?”

            “More worried about our new exit strategy.”  Connor risked a glance toward the back.  Fucking stores, never thought to stick in a window.  The back was completely shrouded, but there were more crowding in on the entrance every second and he and Murph didn’t exactly have infinite ammo.

            “Well, you’re the master planner, brother. Plan.”

            “You only say that so that I can get blamed when you find yourself eaten.”  Connor’s first gun clicked empty.  Murphy laughed; it sounded thinner than usual.

            “I’m just thinking about your scrawny hide.  Don’t go getting yourself bitten and making me shoot you.”  His next shot yielded a useless click, and he cursed.  “We moving then or not?”  Connor gritted his teeth.

            “We’re moving.  Stay close, and listen for breathing.”

            And they fell backward into the darkness as the horde swept in.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor encounters a familiar face, and now's really not the time for an interrogation.

PART I: VERITAS

**Chapter One**

_The wailing was what woke him, late in the cold night. Long, quavering moans that seemed to have risen from the despairing depths of Hell itself to haunt him. He held himself still, not daring to move, before another sough sent him tugging his sheet above his head like a ward against the terrors of the night._

_A pair of eyes, wide and bright with fear, greeted him in the shadowed sanctuary. Matching pale gazes held each other for a few seconds, gathering strength. And then the other boy swallowed, and whispered high and soft._

_"You think it's a wight, Conn?"_

_The voice seemed to break the nightmare spell, and warmth flowed back into his veins. Sniffing, Connor rolled to his back and scoffed his brother's childish question._

_"Don't be stupid, stupid. It's Ma."_

_The wails continued through the night-darkened house. Murphy set his jaw bravely, rolling to his back as well. For several seconds they listened in silence, before Murphy wavered, rolling back to face Connor again._

_"…Do you think it's about Da?"_

_Connor stayed, resolute, on his back. Beyond the thin press of the sheet, the wails had begun to dissolve into sobs – sharp, wrenching expulsions of heartache and loss._

_"It's always about Da."_

_The sounds tore at something inside of him; the depth of the loss, the loneliness. Made his soul ache with a terror he couldn't quite understand. Without thinking, his left hand slid out across the bed sheet; his brother's hand was already waiting to clasp it._

_As the night wore on and the sobs bled to spent silence, the feel of each other's fingers acted as an unspoken promise. They would never need to fear the sting of that awful loneliness. They would never make those sounds. That was what having a brother meant._

_Never having to be alone._

.-

Time passed on. Restless days, and the nights grew colder. It had stopped being measured by the span between meals, the hours between sleep. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done either. Blood soaked the heavy cloth of his coat… or maybe it was water. It'd been raining, he remembered faintly. At some point.

The demons were swarming around him again; he couldn't remember a time when they hadn't been all around him. In the forests, the streets. The church. Like an endless nightmare he just couldn't shake.

He swung the crowbar tiredly at the one blocking his way. The skull was soft enough that the halfhearted blow was more than enough; it crumpled like Ma after pub on Paddy's Day. He snorted, wiped the spatter of blood off his cheek, and stored that one away for later. Murph would want to hear it, if only to tell him what a fucking idiot he was.

He would tell him… he _would._ Murph would laugh.

Connor MacManus slammed full force into the shop's back exit, pressing against the metal sheet as much for balance as to get the thing open. It opened so easily that he almost found himself falling straight onto the linoleum, but caught himself on the handle, reversing his momentum and slamming the door shut again the second he was inside. His fingers fumbled as his eyes fought to adjust to the darkness, catching and twisting the lock. Whatever was inside couldn't be as bad as the mass that had been following him up the street.

No time to catch his breath, he hefted the crowbar again, flicking on the salvaged flashlight strung to his wrist, and found himself face to face with—

" _Murph!_ "

It was so unbelievable that he had to squeeze his eyes shut and blink them back open again warily. But there was his brother, standing five feet in front of him in the darkness, staring at him and looking as surprised as he felt. After all these weeks – days? months? – he had to admit he'd been losing faith that they'd find each other again. He should've known God would place them back together in his time of need.

"Christ, Murph." He grinned, hunger and exhaustion forgotten, moving forward to grab his brother's shoulders and make sure he wasn't just some mirage born from Connor’s sleep-deprived brain. "Lurking in the shadows like a freak then, are you? Where the hell've…" But he trailed off, frowning, because his brother wasn't grinning back. Wasn't wrapping him in a hug or cuffing him upside the head and, stranger still, was letting him get a word in edgewise. Instead Connor was greeted with a blank look, a grim line of a jaw, and a decidedly sick feeling of _wrongness_ creeping through his hollowed-out belly.

Before he could speak again or even begin to work out the feeling, there was a squeal of metal behind him and Murphy shoved him _hard_ to the right. Connor had no chance to prepare for it and stumbled, the crowbar and torch scattering. His head slammed into the side of some shelf with a crack that made the world spin weirdly and get even darker. When he could focus again he saw Murphy stabbing some demon in the side of the head with a long knife.

_There he goes, playing fucking Rambo…_

But here, again, Murphy fell short of expectation. No whoop of victory escaped his lips, no final, triumphant kick to the demon's gut as it collapsed on the floor in front of him. Instead he just continued forward, moving up the short hall toward the back exit Connor had just come in through.

Connor blinked, but the world didn't stop swimming. His stomach lurched as he tried to sit back upright.

How the fuck had there been a demon behind him, anyway? He'd locked the door, hadn't he?

Murphy fell back into view, the knife out of sight. Instead he was gripping what looked like…

"What, are you Van Helsing now? Where'd you get that thing?"

Murphy sent him a sharp look and the sense of _wrongness_ hit him again. His head throbbed wildly. And when Murphy slung the crossbow back over his shoulder, made his way toward Connor and snarled, "move," it was all he could do to half roll out of the way and hold back the nausea while Murphy grabbed the edge of the shelf and started dragging it toward the short hall. Cans clattered to the floor with deafening crashes, and Connor pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing at each impact.

"The fuck are you…" Another demon came stumbling out of the hallway, and all thought of dizziness left him. Connor _acted_ , diving forward and tackling the thing before Murphy even noticed it was behind him. He pinned it and it snarled up at him, its breath enough to make Connor almost black out all over again. He punched it once, twice in the side of the head, but despite the sickening crunch of the decaying jaw it didn't react, its bony hands clawing at the folds of Connor's coat.

From this angle, Connor could see that the back door was open again. Either the lock had been broken, or he'd fumbled with something completely different in the darkness. Perfect. Murphy was still pushing the metal shelf, angling it up the short stretch of hall and shoving backward a pair of stumbling demons that didn't have the sense to step around.

The creature beneath him lurched upward, trying to bite at his fist when it swung in for another punch, but its jaw wobbled uselessly. Still, even being scraped by its teeth was probably a death sentence, so Connor rolled the sleeve of his heavy coat over his hand and gripped the fabric in his fist as he continued to pound at the side of the creature's skull. His crowbar would've been more effective but he couldn't even see it in the shadowed room, and anyway with the next hit he felt the softened skull start to give way.

Murphy had managed to use the shelf to shove the back exit shut, and was now bracing the other end against the handle to some door on the left side of the hall – a bathroom or a storage room or something; Connor was the wrong angle to see in. Anyone wanted to get through the back door now, they'd have to shove hard enough to snap off the handle.

The flood of blood and brains on Connor's sleeve as he ruptured the skull made him gag again, and he rolled off the demon's corpse. The room kept spinning even when he'd stopped. _How hard_ had he _hit_ his head, anyway?

Murphy, meanwhile, was moving towards him, grabbing his shoulder, pulling him to sit upright and shoving him back against a stretch of wall.

"Not bad," Connor wheezed through steadying breaths. "Not that I couldn'ta-"

"How many of you are there?"

Connor blinked, focused in on Murphy's face. He still looked as hard and angry as before; his words slurring in a strange, deep-throated growl that made Connor wonder if his ears had gotten jolted along with his spinning vision. But the look in Murphy's eyes, cold and totally empty of recognition… something was definitely off about him.

"What?"

Growling wordlessly, Murphy knocked Connor against the wall again before standing and letting out a short, high whistle. All Connor could think was how much the sound hurt his already pounding head, until he heard a shuffle of movement from his right, toward the front of the store. At first he cursed his twin's carelessness, sure the piercing sound had alerted other demons to their presence, but then he caught sight of a group making its way cautiously toward them.

There were four in all: a brunette woman who seemed more than a little pregnant, led in by a kid wearing a sheriff's hat. A scared looking blonde girl not more than sixteen, clutching the arm of a white-haired man with a shotgun.

And Murphy was looking back from the approaching group and reaching over his shoulder, pulling out that crossbow again and aiming it straight at Connor's head.

.-

Daryl heard the others beginning to shuffle in behind him: the kid's careful steps, the woman's increasingly waddling gait. Heard the exact second when the girl noticed they weren't alone – her quiet gasp.

The man on the ground was staring up at Daryl's crossbow with sort of a puzzled fascination.

"Fucking hilarious." His voice had a strange, foreign lilt to it. Something European Daryl couldn't quite peg. After a few seconds the man seemed to dismiss the crossbow as a threat, lifting a hand to feel carefully across the right side of his head. "You just going to point that in my face all day, or you going to help me up?" He winced as he touched some injury hidden under his shaggy brown hair, glanced down at bloodied fingers and then, shrugging, held out the hand.

Daryl stared at it blankly, not sure how to react. After a few seconds, the man lowered his arm down to his knee.

"The fuck's wrong with you, eh?"

It was all strangely off-putting. No one had ever stared down his crossbow and dismissed it as a joke... or shrugged it off like a complete nonentity before. Despite himself, Daryl's eyes flicked down to the weapon. The bolt _was_ loaded, was trained on the man, and his finger was firmly set on the release. He returned his scowl to the frowning stranger.

"It look like I'm in the mood to help you up?"

"We don't have time for this,' Lori, behind him, started to mutter. "You have to get out there, find the others." Hershel shushed her, but she was right. This wasn't exactly the time for an interrogation.

They'd come into the small town hoping for a quiet place to raid supplies, maybe hunker down for a bit now that the nights were getting colder. Of course, nothing ever went easy and they'd hit a huge herd, already riled up, tearing in from the opposite direction as they'd approached a promising strip mall. It'd come down to Daryl to guide the non-fighters to a place they'd be safe while the rest tried to clean house or lead the Walkers off… and instead he'd led them straight to what looked like another raiding party.

Rick and the others had no idea to be on guard for the living as well as the dead.

Daryl stalked a step closer to the sprawled man, making sure his bolt was pointed straight at one eye. Less skull he had to hit, the better for his bolt. If it came to that.

"I don't wanna ask again; how many of you are there?"

Again, the man's reaction was completely off. He stared for another second, eyes scanning across Daryl's features in a way that made the hunter fight the urge to shift and look away. Then he snorted, winced, hand going back to his head.

"You're… really not though, are you? How many of _you_ are there, Murph?"

It was starting to sound like a game, and Daryl was in no mood for playing. In one smooth movement he had dropped his hold on his bow - allowing it to swing down against his hip - drawn out his knife, and crouched in front of the stranger, holding the blade against his throat. Behind him, the girl stifled another gasp, and Daryl's jaw tightened; kid still hadn't quite adjusted to the way things were on the road.

The man's teeth clenched as well, though his eyes betrayed no fear at the touch of steel.

"Thought I said I didn't wanna ask again."

The stranger's dark eyes kept flicking back and forth across Daryl's face. Pausing a fraction too long at the left corner of his lip, sliding down to the side of his neck. Just his luck; he was stuck questioning a hostage with brain damage.

Growling, he grabbed at the side of the man's head, wrenching the damp hair around his wound. The man hissed.

"Aye, alright, I heard you."

"And?"

"And nothing. I'm here on my own."

Carl was moving forward, a swagger in his step like he was trying to seem tough.

"No one's 'on their own' anymore. You can't stay alive on your own."

The stranger's eyes slid from the kid back to Daryl, and then away again so quickly that Daryl felt like he was missing the punch line in some obvious joke.

"Aye, world's not a friendly place nowadays, is it kid?"

Carl shifted faintly. Lori murmured, "Come on back here, baby," but her tone didn't hold much hope, and sure enough, Carl pointedly ignored her. As if they had time in their lives these days for family drama.

The man glanced back toward Daryl, though his eyes stayed hovering somewhere around his collar.

"I've been looking for someone."

Daryl snorted. Looking for someone these days was like looking for a bolt in the back of a Walker in the middle of Atlanta. Merle's face lit in his mind like a flashbulb and slowly faded, leaving him angrier than ever.

"Well, now you've found someone."

The man's eyes slid slowly – hopefully? – upward. That wasn't exactly the reaction he'd been going for. He gripped the hair harder, causing the man to groan.

"This 'someone,' he around here?"

"No," the stranger's wincing eyes stayed fixed on Daryl. The hope had drained out in them and they seemed angry, accusing even, but there was no lie there. "I don't think he is." Then his attention started to slide away, going distant, and his head began to loll. Daryl released his tight grip on the man's hair, cursing. So something was actually wrong with the guy; he wasn't just a babbling idiot.

"Dad…" Beth was whispering, but the sound carried in the otherwise silent store. "This is taking too long; what if Maggie…"

The stranger was blinking quickly, trying to get himself to focus, but his voice slurred and his head slid back. "Oh, Christ. I've fucking lost it, haven't I?" He let out a short, watery laugh, slammed his head back against the wall and groaned again, before starting in on some folksy tune in a high lilt. "Oh the night that Paddy Murphy died is a night I'll never forget... Paddy Murphy… fucking died and then came back again…"

"Daryl," This was Hershel now, quietly reasonable above the man's off-key murmurs. "Let's just leave him be and move on. This man has nothing to do with us."

"You need to check on the others." Beth, voice shaking, trying hard to be brave. "We're fine here, just go."

"I ain't leaving you bunch alone with some outta his head stranger," Daryl snapped, not bothering to glance back. "I'd like to avoid Rick spitting me alive, much as we could all use the dinner."

"I can watch him." Carl, who else? Damn kid trying to play Sheriff like always. Trying to impress the girl. "We could tie him up with…" He paused for a few seconds; there was a rattle of shifting supplies and he finished triumphantly, "duct tape!"

It'd be easier to just kill the guy now. He'd said he was alone and Daryl believed him. There'd be no backup racing up with a mind for revenge. Damn lunatic was probably the reason there'd been a crowd of riled up Walkers racing through the streets in the first place.

But he'd looked at Daryl with those damn halfway hopeful eyes... and Daryl couldn't quite forget that he'd had his back, taking down that Walker while he'd been too distracted getting the door shut. Probably just to save his own skin, but... damn it… they didn't kill the living. Not just to make life a little easier, anyway. Not if there was another choice.

Lori stepped in closer, adding: "Carol's out there, too."

And that reminder hit him like a punch in the gut. It shouldn't have mattered, not more than anything else, anyway. But she could barely hold a gun. She'd been cut off from retreating with the rest when half a dozen geeks had come snarling up the side street and broken their ranks in half. Last he'd seen, T-Dog was pulling her away from the fight but…

His open palm hit the wall with a force to rattle shelving. The stranger flinched, rambling song going abruptly silent.

" _Fine_. Kid, get the tape and make sure it's tight, hear me?"

"Ey…" The man blinked slow and heavy, grinned at him dizzily. His accent was so thick now that Daryl could barely pick out the words. "Less'all just grab a drink'n part ways friends, aye? Not a fan a bein' cuffed, s'ya should well know."

The words worked to further fray Daryl's already spent nerves. Carl moved forward, tugging a strip of tape free as he went.

"What," Daryl snapped at the stranger. "Want me to send you out as a happy meal for a street full of Walkers? Trust me, we're doing you a favor keeping you in here."

And that, of course, was when Beth started screaming.

Daryl whirled just as the stranger jerked himself upright, barely avoiding impaling himself on the knife that had just left his throat. She was pointing toward the back of the store, one hand over her mouth to stifle any more screams. Carl stepped in front of her, aiming his own gun into the darkness and squinting to see what had frightened her. Daryl swung his bow up again, directing the flashlight he'd attached to the barrel into the shadowed corner.

There were hands reaching out from behind the shelf he'd moved, from what'd looked like a supply room when Daryl had tugged the door open and used the knob to brace the shelf in place. It had seemed empty enough in there at a glance – a long, shadowed row of half-open boxes – but he hadn't had much chance to scope it out. Now it looked like some kind of a Walker nest must've been lurking in the back, out of sight. They were blocked off, trapped in the back room by the stretch of shelving, but even things that brainless would figure out to crawl through the space between shelves eventually. That or they'd shove hard enough that they'd just push the shelving away from the handle, and let the horde piled against the back entrance through.

The stranger had slid to his knees, white fingers scraping against the wall for balance, and was peering down the hall as well.

"How many are they?"

More than Daryl'd like. There were three pairs of arms now, maybe four. Hell, how could a town this damn small have so many Walkers? No place was quiet anymore; no place was safe.

" _You_ shut up," he said aloud. Then, "Hershel." He inclined his head toward the shelves. The man stepped forward, shotgun raised, while Daryl kept steady aim for anything worse than arms coming out at them. Hershel dared to get in as close as the start of the short hall, his own flashlight carefully sweeping over the doorway and the blocked in Walkers. After a few seconds he let out a weary sigh, stepping back.

"There's a lot of them. Seems like maybe they're coming in through an open supply door around the back of that room."

Which meant that Daryl had blocked off the back entrance only let them in through this side one. This place wasn't safe any more than the street was.

"That shelf's not going to hold in place," That was the stranger. Irish, Daryl decided with a sudden burst of certainty; though what the hell an Irishman was doing down in the middle of Georgia during the apocalypse… "It was set to hold things pushing from the end, not from the side."

"Didn't I tell you to shut it?"

"He's right," Lori murmured, like Daryl didn't know that already. "We've got to go."

The shelf rattled, scraped an inch along the edge of the handle, and Daryl cursed.

"Ok, let’s get back to the front. Hershel, point. Carl, on your Mom and Beth, and _you_ ," he grabbed the Irishman's collar, pulling him upright. "You stay where I can see you and don't try anything. Maybe some of that leprechaun luck'll get us all out of this alive."

.-

TBC


End file.
